After The Auction
by Ms. Pen
Summary: On the way to his wife's grave, Raoul reflects on the strange events that brought them together-- and haunted their lives.


Standard Fanfic Disclaimer: These characters, situations, etc. are obviously not mine. I am not seeking to make money off this story, I merely wrote it for the pleasure of writing. It is not based off the novel, but the film version of the stage musical. Constructive criticism is welcome, general stupidity will be ignored.

After The Auction  
A Phantom Phic by Ms. Pen

Raoul, the Vicomte De Chagny, did not speak to Madame Giry before leaving the ruined opera house. Too much time had passed, a lapse he was glad for, since the horror that had bound them.

Now, safely tucked in the confines of his automobile, he remembered the ballet mistress's hand on his arm as she'd led him through the secret passages beneath the opera.

"Your hand at the level of your eyes," she'd whispered, worry deepening the creases around her eyes. He'd thought her old then, in all his youthful wisdom. Perhaps he hadn't seen her today, but a ghost of the kind but intimidating woman who'd cleansed her conscience when she'd washed her hands of the monster she'd shelter for so long.

What had possessed her to bid for the music box? The macabre souvenir stared at Raoul through its scratched glass eyes. It had seen more than he or Madam Giry could guess at. Its sinister grin taunted Raoul, as if chiding him about tawdry scenes of a lovers' tryst and whispered words of secret desire.

No, that was his mind playing cruel tricks again. Christine had been pure. She'd admitted to being tempted by her angel's lascivious advances, but that spell had been broken when she'd unmasked his grotesque malformation. She'd gone to her new husband's bed untouched, but she'd brought with her secret, dark yearnings.

Who had she seen when she'd closed her eyes and sighed in pleasure? That was the question that had tormented him since their first night, the same night he'd delivered her from the clutches of the monster who'd controlled her mind and sought to claim her body.

"Raoul, please," she'd begged when he'd refused her. She'd been through a terrible ordeal. No gentleman would take advantage of a woman so traumatized. But then she'd stepped out of her dress, her soft, brown eyes glistening with pleading tears. "I need to forget. Help me remember this night for something joyous."

She'd never forgotten. Though the scent of the damp cellar washed off her skin, the smoke from the fire aired out of her dress, there were too many reminders for both of them. The veiled look in her eyes as she'd sang their children to sleep had broken his heart as much as the sound of her own voice had broken hers.

"He gave me a gift, Raoul." She'd wept and leaned her head against his shoulder. "I didn't repay him, and I tossed that gift aside."

On the few occasions Meg Giry had come to visit, Christine had become restless and homesick for the Opera. Soon, she no longer extended invitations to her old acquaintances from the ballet corps. It was not that she had settled into her role as an aristocratic wife. She was born for the stage, and he'd been a fool to believe she would be happy with a life of lavish parties and country sabbaticals. When she'd lost the heat of the footlights and the roar of an appreciative crowd, she'd lost a piece of her soul.

Every jostle of the auto brought him closer to the cemetery walls. The vehicle crawled the badly maintained road to the Daáe tomb, the same road he'd ridden under the first snow of winter during that terrible year. The cold that plagued his bones now had barely touched him then, so intent had he been on reaching his love's side. His prayers had echoed every hoof beat, _please don't let me be too late._

God had been merciful that time.

No mercy had been shown later. He'd been away, dealing with business on his estate in Belgium when he'd received news of his wife's illness. Though he'd rushed home, she'd been two days cold when he'd reached her.

_As cold as she must be now._ He wanted to rage at the thought of his beautiful Christine rotting away in the pitiless soil, but he was too tired. His stiff joints, another spiteful trick of old age, held him imprisoned in his seat, unable to do more than clutch the wretched music box.

They stopped before the tomb— she hadn't wished to be parted from her father after death— and the driver opened the door for him. The nurse, a pleasant, devoted woman, helped him into his wheelchair, which had become a troublesome necessity.

"It's terribly cold, Sir. I can't imaginethis weatheris any good at all for your knees," she clucked, tucking his tartan blanket more tightly over his legs.

He didn't answer her, but gave a grim smile and waved her away.

Bitter tears choked him as the driver knelt to place the ornate box beside the gravestone. No mention of the scandal had been etched into the stone, but Raoul saw the memory of it in his wife's heartsick eyes as she stared at him from the portrait medallion fixed to the stone. That was not the face of a devoted wife and a loving mother. It was a woman who had been robbed of her dreams.

There was no doubt she'd loved their children, and him as well. But he'd never had all of her. He'd tried to be satisfied with what she had given him, the sweet, romantic love of an innocent girl and later the pride and fidelity of a fine wife. Still, it continued to sting him everyday that he had not been the one to awaken the dark, unbridled sensuality he'd seen on the stage as she'd sung in her mentor's opera. That piece of her belonged to another, and it had been locked away from Raoul the moment he'd taken her from her beloved Opera.

"She is yours," he whispered to the figure atop the music box. It displayed no passion or gratitude as it rested on the frozen ground. "I should have returned her to you a long time ago."

The brilliant red of a perfect rose caught his eye, and he marveled that he'd overlooked it upon first glance. The man must truly have been a monster, to leave such a mocking reminder of what Raoul had never possessed.

Christine had looked back as they'd left the Phantom's lair. That was where her heart had remained.As theautorumbled out of thecemetery, Raoul did not look back. He had no heart to leave her.


End file.
